


Breather

by rhosyndu



Category: British Comedy RPF
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Sex in a toilet, old LJ fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-28 05:10:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19805419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhosyndu/pseuds/rhosyndu
Summary: David is anxious following their live performance at the Secret Policeman's Ball. Robert helps him calm down.





	Breather

**Author's Note:**

> Written November 2008.
> 
> The context: the sketch was a live run of the 'Are we the baddies?' Nazi sketch, done for Amnesty International's Secret Policeman's Ball.  
> Here's a link to [the backstage blog where Mitchell and Webb chat to Stephen Merchant](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EezRw8vkPUs).

“That went okay.” Cap in hand, David brushed his fringe back from his face and glanced at Rob, busy peeling the mic and wires off himself. “Didn’t it?”  
  
Rob frowned, almost said something, stopped. And then, pointing at the hovering runner: “Aren’t you going to take your mic and pack off? They’ll want them for later in the show.”  
  
David nodded and carefully didn’t fumble it off, though managed to twist up the wires into a big unruly ball anyway. He winced a little as he handed it over. “Sorry about that.”  
  
The runner took it with a mumbled ‘no problem’, thanked them both and, true to his job description, dashed off.   
  
“So - yes. That went alright in the, in the end.”  
  
Rob grunted and started down the corridor, heading in the vague direction of the green room. “Like we knew it was going to be.”  
  
“Yes. Yes, of course.”   
  
While the front and public face of the Albert Hall was as ostentatiously gaudy as taste would allow - a subtly unsubtle reminder that it, that _this_ was the product of the grandest and richest Empire that the world had ever seen - following the unwritten rule of such places the backstage area was almost the inverse. Not quite grim, but definitely featureless and impersonal; there was even a bland sameness to the steady stream of intently busy people, like ants or bees in their identical industriousness. Two drones stepped suddenly out of a doorway with a bundle of cables strung between them, and Rob had to take a step aside as they brushed past him; for a brief moment his warm arm was pressed right up against David’s.   
  
Imagined warmth radiated out from the touch, burned over David’s already heated skin, and was gone. Surrounded by people they didn’t know, it was simultaneously the same as, and much worse than, being in a silent room together.   
  
Unable to talk freely, David wished Rob would speak. Say -- anything, really. Just distract him from thinking about the sketch they’d just done.   
  
He knew it was useless to dwell on it, but knowing it and being able to stop himself from doing it were two things apart.  
  
They passed more doors, took a left, and another one. As they headed away from the stage there were fewer and fewer people, and enough weight fell away for David to venture clearing his throat.   
  
“You don’t think that we should have gone with the changed ending, do you? I know it was a last minute idea and we didn’t have the time to try it out, but it might have been worth running with--“   
  
“David.”  
  
“--as, you know, in a show like this, you really do need a strong final punch line to leave them on, you aren’t just leaping--“  
  
“David, it’s done.”  
  
“-- straight into another sketch, there’s that pause between you and the next, the next chap - performer, speaker, _whatever_ \- and it’s weaker for that--“  
  
“It’s _done_ , David,” Rob told him in a low, firm voice. “You can let it go now.”  
  
“-- and it’s that last laugh that they really remember; or, or _don’t_ \--“  
  
Rob’s eyes flickered to the toilets they were about to pass, back to David working himself up, over the almost empty side corridor they were in. He made a decision, and grasped David’s wrist.   
  
Rob yanked him almost comically into the toilets, across the room to the cubicle, kicking the door open, spinning David around by the arm, and then shoving him in with a yelp. The door banged shut, the lock _snicked_ home, and Rob’s mouth was on David’s.  
  
“This is stupid,” David hissed the second he was able.  
  
“Stop thinking.”  
  
“Anyone could--“  
  
“Stop,” Rob practically bit on David’s lower lip, drawing it into his mouth and raking his teeth against the tender skin as it slid free, “thinking, and--“ Rob fumbled the buttons on the uniform open and yanked the starched white shirt free, “--help me.”  
  
A confused tingle of desire ran through David, and his uneasy hands started to tangle Rob’s jacket open, uncertain but following Rob’s lead. With his hands inside the Nazi jacket, he stroked Rob’s chest through his shirt, still hesitant, not yet venturing below his waist nor above his neck; neutral ground.  
  
Rob kissed him again, and unzipped his fly as he whispered, “You need this. I want this.”   
  
He tasted of cigarettes and the cheap coffee they’d thrown down their necks earlier, denying themselves anything stronger before performing. The caffeine had made the tremble in his own hands more pronounced and had probably done more harm than good for the butterflies in David’s stomach.  
  
They were fluttering again now, though much warmer and heavier than before. David got his act together and pushed back, hot and hard against the hand Rob had slid inside his boxers, Rob’s own erection rubbing against his hip.   
  
Sliding a hand down between their bodies, he awkwardly traced the edge of Rob’s cock through the cloth of his trousers. The angles were all wrong and cramped and David eventually moved back enough - Rob following him as he moved, trying not to give him enough space to start thinking again - to yank down Rob’s pants and trousers, lick his palm wet and touch him properly.  
  
A flush had started to burn its way up and over Rob’s neck, rising behind his ears and over his cheekbones; he breathed heavily through his nose as David’s grip slid from hard to loose and back again, his fingertips twisting almost too hard across the underside-- then brushing gossamer-faint and teasing over the tip.   
  
Memories of past encounters denied to their thoughts pulsed in their touch, momentary electric sparks; the knowledge that to move like _this_ would draw Rob’s spine back like a bow, that a careless fingernail _here_ would catch David’s breath from him.   
  
David pressed his cheek against Rob’s own rather than meet his eyes, sweat damp skin against his own flushed face.   
  
The plywood wall creaked as they moved, Rob ducking his head and pressing a kiss to the side of David’s throat, hard and uncomfortable against his Adam’s apple. His circled fingers dipped, moving in a staccato rhythm along David’s shaft. Disorientating and disynchronous pleasure that rose and dropped in uncertain waves. Crowding faster, faster still.  
  
He felt Rob’s mouth move against him, murmuring something silent, something strange; unbidden and unformed words, blooming and breaking around a thought that he couldn’t hold fast. _Give it up, come on, give it up for me._ Close, David hardly heard him, and understood less.  
  
He came undone, coating Rob’s palm and the front of his pants.   
  
Somewhere close but held off by the static, Rob followed.   
  
David exhaled heavily, and found Rob still leaning close with a smile that echoed gently in the dimple of his cheek.  
  
“Thank you,” David murmured, and the smile twitched.  
  
With a small shake of his head Rob looked down. David’s costume was ruined with the stains from the both of them, and he thought about, but didn’t, wipe his sticky hand off on it. “You’re going to expect me to fetch your clothes for you now, aren’t you?”  
  
“If you would. Unless you want to change the sketch to include jizz covered Nazis next time?”


End file.
